


Nothing Else (But Us)

by ReviewDiaries



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Growing Up, Implied Underage, Kidlock, M/M, Mildly Dubious Consent, Sibling Incest, Young Mycroft, Young Sherlock, holmescest
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-04-30
Updated: 2013-04-30
Packaged: 2017-12-10 01:13:00
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 16,599
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/780060
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ReviewDiaries/pseuds/ReviewDiaries
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>They are like two halves of a whole, separate entities that slot together, brain synapses firing through the air, passing through skin and glances, half formed thoughts and smiles until Mycroft knows Sherlock better than he knows himself, knows him  inside out, every gesture, every movement, can read him like a book, his own story slotting into the corresponding pages. He cannot help but study him, and Sherlock returns the favour, a constant symbiosis of thought and motion. A thread connection, stronger than anything, than anyone.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Nothing Else (But Us)

**Author's Note:**

> Rating is for later chapters where things start to get a little incesty.  
> Huge thanks to Laurie for cheerleading and beta-ing

 

 i)            Mycroft is fascinated by his younger brother. He cannot explain it adequately, cannot pull his feelings apart and label them to slot in as they should, and so he watches. Sherlock defies all of the rules that govern the rest of those surrounding Mycroft – he is a law unto himself, a constant force of energy and destruction that grows and evolves and splits apart the quiet, orderly world that Mycroft has created around himself. He cannot be tamed, cannot be rationalised, and so Mycroft watches him. Watches as Sherlock grows from a tiny bundle of fists that cling tight to Mycroft’s fingers and too large eyes that absorb everything around him, into a terror of energy, a fireball, a thunderclap, the lightning dancing on the edges of the horizon and so full of questions, of demands, of everything that Mycroft has to give.  
                Sherlock is two, three, four, and Mycroft cannot stop watching him, cannot stop following him, as though Sherlock has upended gravity for his own purposes and pulled Mycroft into his own orbit, a constant circle on the edges of being burned.  
                Mycroft has never been particularly sociable, perfectly capable of the niceties of communication but disinterested in putting them to use when the only people around him cannot keep up. Only Father seems interested in the same things, can hold a conversation with Mycroft as though he is a person rather than a child, can explain and pick apart and show Mycroft how the world’s jigsaw pieces begin to fit together. Mummy isn’t interested. She is always there to give Mycroft a hug, smooth down his hair and straighten his clothes – a warm comforting embrace smelling of powder and freesias. But she doesn’t _think_ , doesn’t see the world as Mycroft is beginning to; pieces and puzzles and details and strings that if you tug just right put people exactly where you want them.  
                But that was before, when the house echoed with silence and Mycroft spent hours in the library, the servants’ hall, watching and studying and learning how people worked. Now there is Sherlock, and Mycroft is discovering he is a much more fascinating puzzle to explore.  
  
 ii)           Sherlock finds words slowly, pulling them in, tasting them, picking them apart and constantly asking Mycroft questions. It is as though now Sherlock has found the words to express what is happening inside his head he has lost all filters between his mind and his mouth. It’s a dizzying stream of consciousness. Logic and puzzles and demands and Mycroft cannot help but marvel at the sheer busyness of the world inside his brother’s head. It is clear from the start that Sherlock’s mind works as Mycroft’s does and whilst Mummy laughs despairingly at the constant barrage of chatter and Father smiles and continues to work in his study, Mycroft is secretly delighted that at last there is someone else who understands. He strives to find the answers that Sherlock is looking for, desperate to keep the interest, cultivate and explore and feed his mind so that Mycroft has someone else who knows, who can keep up with him. It is thrilling and terrifying and utterly fantastic to have this unexpected gift.  
                 Mycroft finds his thoughts loosen from their confines when he is around Sherlock – he is never so free, so liberal with his words as his little brother. He still measures them carefully, weighing each for its value before dropping it out, syllables tasting like old pennies in his mouth as he speaks, returns, parries and volleys Sherlock’s never ending stream of words, questions, deductions, demands and answers. Sherlock’s mind is chaos; brilliant, fantastic, unadulterated chaos that ebbs and flows around them both and Mycroft finds himself forgetting where the full stops fall in the safety of his head. It is one long on-going battlesentencedemand when he is with Sherlock who throws comma’s to the wind as though he steals them from everyone he meets. Mycroft has never felt freer.  
                Sherlock becomes Mycroft’s shadow, as Mycroft orbits Sherlock’s chaos. They invent games and puzzles and spend long rainy days ensconced in the library surrounded by towers of books that Sherlock insists Mycroft read to him. Their own world, un-ruled except in the loosest sense of dinner and breakfast and bedtimes. They run free on the estate, Father too often in town now to put a hand in except on rare occasions, and Mummy happy that her boys are getting along so well to bother to interfere. They run rampant through the corridors and parlours, so many rooms for games and hiding and riddles untold. Mycroft has learned to charm the servants with his words and smiles, a favour here, a drop of information there – he knows how to make them unfurl to his bidding with the slightest phrase, to gain access to the grounds at night, extra sweets an hour before dinner, to not tell Mummy when Sherlock has spilled red paint all over his bed sheets. Sherlock has no such guiles and tricks. He barrels in, wild curls, eyes that enchant with their ever changing effervescence, and the simple demands and beams of a child who has not yet learned the cruelties of the world. He succeeds instantly in ways that Mycroft has had to work for years to achieve, and Mycroft catalogues the endless intricacies of his brother – myriads of information yet to be explored. They hide under the table in the kitchen whilst cook is making apple tarts, the first of the year from the crop of apples in the orchard. Once they are placed on a rack to cool and one of the maids is shrieking about a rat (Sherlock’s, a stuffed toy,) Mycroft sneaks two and they scuttle out to sit on the kitchen door step. Flagstones warm beneath their hands, they suck off hot apple and cinnamon from sticky fingers and Sherlock makes a mess of the barn cat’s fur with apple and pastry and explorative hands, and it is bliss in a way Mycroft has never thought to imagine.  
                They are kings, princes of their domain, they want for nothing, and it is paradise.

iii)           Sherlock is four and ill with a fever that flushes his pale skin in a parody of health and makes him toss and cry out from fever dreams. It is freezing outside, steel sky and frost liming the windows and grounds, yet Sherlock’s pyjamas stick to him with sweat as his body battles the virus. He is miserable, too weak to move from his bed, and his mind is tearing itself apart as a result. Mycroft finds a battered copy of _Treasure Island_ in the library, hidden behind a copy of Debrett’s Peerage, and slips into Sherlock’s room after dinner with it clutched in his hands. Mummy had given him strict instructions not to go into Sherlock’s room lest he become sick as well, but the sight of his little brother, utterly wretched and unnaturally quiet is enough to urge him on.   
                “You’re not supposed to be in here.” Sherlock’s voice is cracked and dry, and Mycroft quickly pours him a glass of water from the jug left on the side and helps him to sit up and sip from it.  
                “No I’m not, but I’ve come to cheer you up.” Sherlock eyes him speculatively over the rim of his glass, taking a few feeble gulps of water before sinking back against the pillows.  
                “What have you brought?” He reaches out for the book and Mycroft hands it over, pulling a couple of pillows over and settling himself back against the headboard. Sherlock hands the book back and snuggles in against Mycroft’s side, listening quietly as he begins to read. They manage two chapters, and a few more sips of water, before Sherlock falls asleep, curled up so firmly around Mycroft that he gives up after the first attempt to slip free and ends up sleeping wrapped around his brother, slipping out of Sherlock’s room before Mummy wakes and discovers him there.  
                Each night Mycroft waits until their parents have tucked Sherlock in, and creeps back in to read to his little brother. The fever drops and Sherlock becomes more animated and involved in the story, until one morning he shakes Mycroft roughly awake and tells him gleefully that he has decided that he wants to be a pirate when he grows up. He will have a sword and a ship and be the most feared pirate in all the seven seas. Mycroft chuckles, barely awake in the still grey of the room, and agrees that Sherlock would indeed make a truly terrifying pirate, and that yes, Mycroft will help him to build a pirate ship just as soon as they’ve had breakfast.  
                They go through the trunks of clothes in the attic and fashion an outfit fit for a pirate captain, and even find an old sword (although it is far too heavy for Sherlock to lift and he is forced to leave it behind with much grumbling) before they are called down to lunch. Mummy is furious at how grubby they are when they appear at the table, and sends them off to wash up and change, but Sherlock refuses, resulting in the worst tantrum Mycroft has seen him throw. He kicks and screams and when she tries to pull off the frock coat, (sleeves rolled up three times and dragging along the ground in Sherlock’s wake,) he pulls her string of pearl’s so hard it breaks. For a moment there is nothing but shocked silence and the patter of the pearls as they hit the floor and scatter, rolling beneath the dresser at the side. Then it is broken by the harsh crack of Mummy’s hand across Sherlock’s bottom and for a second he is so shocked he forgets even to scream.  
                Mycroft watches in horror as Mummy slaps him again, and then bodily lifts him from the room, carrying him upstairs to his bedroom. The sounds of her anger and Sherlock’s cries echo through the house, and Mycroft watches helpless as Sherlock is locked in his room and Mummy storms away, white lipped with anger.  
                There is nothing he can do, not with his mother so angry and the only key far out of his reach. He wants to go to his little brother, hold him close and soothe him, explain what he did wrong and reassure him that everything will be fine. Mummy has never struck either of them and Mycroft is stunned by it, lost and adrift and so useless to make anything better that it makes him _angry._  
                Once it is clear that Mummy is not coming back again, he fetches paper and pens and slides a puzzle beneath the door, scratching at the wood and calling for Sherlock until his shrieks quiet, and he settles on the other side of the door with a soft thump. They pass the afternoon slowly with puzzles and word games and soft conversation through the thick barrier of the door, until at last one of the maids is sent with the key to unlock Sherlock’s door and Mycroft can finally go to his little brother, wash the dried tears from his face and pull him close.  
                Mummy doesn’t mention it again, choosing to pretend that everything is fine, and that there aren’t still pearls scattered beneath the dresser gathering dust. But the attic trunks are locked and Sherlock’s dreams of piracy are never mentioned again.

iv)           Sherlock is five and wants to know all about the stars, so Mycroft spends a week pulling down all the books he can find on them from the library and showing Sherlock, helping sound out the longer words until mere theory isn’t enough and Sherlock creeps into Mycroft’s room at just past midnight and shakes him awake demanding to see them properly.  
                “You see them every night.” Mycroft grumbles because he is tired and he has a piano lesson in the morning and he just wants to sleep. But Sherlock is there and demanding and when Mycroft finally opens his eyes and see him standing, caught in a sliver of moonlight through the gap in the curtains (slanting across his eyes, the soft curve of his cheek, catching in the strands of his hair) Mycroft cannot say no.  
                They wrap up and tiptoe out through the French windows in the drawing room and Mycroft helps Sherlock to spread the blanket he dragged from his bed down the stairs and they lie in the chill night air and point out the pinpricks of light that have unfolded across the sky since they went to bed. Sherlock gleefully points and explains and the books they have been reading spill out in words and flurries and facts and estimations until each star is connected by a strand of text or knowledge that Sherlock has crammed away into his mind, and in that moment Mycroft cannot breathe for the feeling that is crushing his lungs beneath its weight. Sentiment, Father would say. Sherlock turns to him then, grinning with delight and Mycroft feels the pressure ease as he returns the smile. Sherlock’s fingers wrap around Mycroft’s wrist as he turns back up to the sky.  
                The butler finds them the next morning, wrapped up in the blanket with Sherlock buried beneath Mycroft’s arm, sound asleep and wet with dew.

v)            The stars are conquered yet Sherlock’s interests remain skyward bound and Mycroft finds himself pulling out books on aeroplanes and flight, spending pocket money on models that they piece together themselves (although Sherlock isn’t allowed to handle the superglue, not yet with his fingers so determined to get in everything and understand how it works.) They begin to design their own aeroplane, blueprints and scribbles that are passed back and forth with equations and corrections jotted round the edges. It takes them most of the summer and several failed attempts, but when their construction finally swoops from the attic window in a graceful arc through the egg blue summer sky, Sherlock whoops loudly and Mycroft has to grab him by his collar to stop him from tumbling from the window. They laugh and perform tests and experiments and adjustments to make it as aerodynamic as possible, until one particularly brilliant flight results in it crashing into the topmost branches of the sycamore tree at the bottom of the garden.  
                Sherlock is inconsolable and Mycroft cannot stand to see him so upset. This is no tantrum filled with screams and filthy, vicious remarks and red blotched cheeks. This is silent, eyes blown wide till they take up more of his face than Mycroft could have dreamed possible. He wipes the tears from Sherlock’s cheeks with his thumbs and hushes him, taking him by the hand to the bottom of the garden to wait as Mycroft climbs.  
                The sycamore tree is not the easiest to climb – those are the apple trees in the orchard – but Mycroft has been growing again, another spurt which makes it easier to reach the lowest branches and haul himself up. It is slow going, he has never been particularly fond of climbing trees, (it is more of a Sherlock past time,) but this time it is too big and too high for Mycroft to risk his little brother trying to attempt a rescue mission. He refuses to look down, to be intimidated by the height, and the image of Sherlock’s tear stained face is more than enough to spur him on when he falters. The branches become thinner, less stable, and he struggles to gain any more ground, but the aeroplane is _just there_ , lodged three branches up and if he could only stretch just a little further –   
                The branch he is balancing on snaps and Mycroft barely has time to snatch in a breath for a startled gasp before he is plummeting to the ground, jostled and smacked by branches as he falls until the air is knocked from his lungs and his head feels as though it might split in two. He hits the ground hard landing awkwardly on his side with such force that he can hear his wrist snap beneath the weight of his body and he cries out in agony, trying desperately to get a full lungful of air.  
                Then Sherlock is there, small hands tentatively touching Mycroft’s head, his shoulder, his arm, short panicked breaths huffing out that almost sound like Mycroft’s name shaped in half formed thoughts.  
                “I need you to go and get someone Sherlock, anyone, just go and get some help.” Mycroft tries to keep the panic and pain from his voice – Sherlock needs calm, authority, something to ground him. The hands still, a moment’s hesitation (of thought) and then they squeeze his arm tightly before he’s off, running back, racing for the house with cries for help, and Mycroft cannot keep his eyes open for a moment longer.

                His wrist is broken in two places and he’s badly bruised several ribs along with a multitude of bruises and scrapes that seem to cover two thirds of his body. After fetching help in the form of Browning the butler and two of the gardeners, (as well as Mummy, running as fast as she could across the grass in her heels,) Sherlock had stayed quiet and pale, eyes huge in his paper white face as he watched Mycroft lifted back inside and the Doctor called for – biting his lips until beads of blood dotted his lips and teeth. Mycroft lifted his good hand to wipe them off with his thumb and offered a half smile of reassurance.  
                Bed-rest and a cast and Mycroft is tucked up in his bed and a tray sent up for dinner – ice cream for pudding as a special treat. He dozes fitfully, painkillers making everything a little hazy around the edges as the sun sets and darkness covers the room.  
                Long after the rest of the house has slipped into slumber and the stripe of moonlight has crept across the floor of Mycroft’s bedroom in a silver echo of the sundial in the courtyard garden, Mycroft hears his door open. A shaft of light from the landing slides in along with a small shadow, before it’s closed again and Mycroft watches as Sherlock creeps across the floor to stand at the edge of his bed. They watch each other for a moment, another long configuration of breaths and tiny movements that Mycroft is learning to read in this language that his brother seems to create just for him. It is an epitaph of apologies and desperate pleading for forgiveness and Mycroft cannot help the quirk of his lips into a smile. He tempers it with explanation before Sherlock can think that he is mocking him.  
                “It’s ok Sherlock, it wasn’t your fault.” He whispers and watches as Sherlock’s eyes tighten, mouth drawing into a firm thin line that says he disagrees with Mycroft and Mycroft is being an idiot because this is clearly all Sherlock’s fault as it was him who threw the plane and him who wanted it back and it was most definitely not him that climbed the sycamore tree to try and fetch it.  
                “It is _not_ your fault. I chose to climb the tree, I didn’t have to.” Sherlock quirks an eyebrow and Mycroft chuckles softly under his breath. “Contrary to belief, I do not do _everything_ you demand Sherlock. Now stop blaming yourself. Tomorrow you can bring up the books on anatomy from the library and we can label the bones in my wrist and arm.” Sherlock looks marginally happier at this, (a slight softening of his shoulders) but he still looks worried, solemn eyes looming out from the darkness of his curls and the shadows of the room. Mycroft can feel the dizzy exhaustion crawling over him again, making his eyes itch and his joints ache so he pulls back the duvet with his good hand and motions for Sherlock to climb in. He does so carefully, each movement calculated and eased out with a care his little brother never usually bothers to utilise as he tries to climb in without jostling Mycroft and his many aches and pains. Mycroft watches, too tired to do anything else, and then once he’s settled carefully pulls the duvet back over them both and tucks his arm around the small bones and ligaments that make up his brother, pulling him in close. He is suddenly fiercely glad that it is him that has the broken wrist; his brother is far too fragile, he would have snapped in a hundred different places from a fall like that. Sherlock snuffles in closer under Mycroft’s arm as sleep pulls them both down in a tangle of dark curls and angular limbs. Mycroft barely hears the whisper in the darkness, and by morning he isn’t sure whether it was real or the beginnings of a dream. Too quiet, too close to the edge of sleep, muffled in the pillow and Mycroft’s pyjamas.  
                “I’m sorry.”

vi)           Sherlock manages to find every book on the human body in the library and brings all of them up to Mycroft’s bedroom over the course of several trips, until Mycroft feels as though his bed is in the middle of a sea of books – the first mate in a vessel that Sherlock will surely captain across the seas.   
                The books are placed around Mycroft and Sherlock climbs up beside him, careful, always so careful, until he forgets himself in the excitement of a new piece of information and Mycroft works to hide the wince before it shows. Thankful that it was his left wrist instead of his right in the cast, Mycroft demands Sherlock fetch a pen and between them they construct the skeleton of Mycroft’s arm and hand on the cast, each bone carefully outlined, annotated, noted and commented on, ( _Phalanges, Metacarpus, Carpus, Radius, Ulna, Trochlea)_ until Sherlock is desperate for more, not just the parts of Mycroft that are broken, but all of his skeleton. He wants to know everything, cram every piece of knowledge into his head until he is sated. Mycroft allows his legs and feet, but refuses any more body parts for the cause – ribs too sore and bruised yet to allow any sort of anatomical aid to the lesson. Paper, more paper, and between them they create a skeleton, outlined, labelled, Mycroft’s neat print next to Sherlock’s messy scrawl. Turn it over, organs, Sherlock wants to know everything, wants to pull the information from the book in Mycroft’s hand, Mycroft’s writing, Mycroft’s thoughts and words and careful explanations. To pull it all in until he can feel the information coating the inside of his skull, laying down like paper trails against his own bonesmusclesorgans until he understands how he works.  
                It is a long process, more than occupying the first few weeks of Mycroft’s recovery until he is well enough to get out of bed and follow Sherlock’s wanderings again. To go outside, enjoy the last few days of warm weather, tramping through the fields collecting samples because Sherlock is bored of human anatomy now, he understands it, has filed it away for future reference and now he wants more, more of everything please. So they start on birds, fish, mice, the barn cats, anything and everything that Sherlock can pinpoint for long enough – Mycroft cradling the ginger tom cat between his hands as he lets Sherlock gently feel out the vertebrae beneath the fur, before going back to text books and filling in the gaps in the spaces left behind.  
                They find a bird lying dead at the base of the oak tree on the edge of the wood, neck snapped, one wing twisted at an unnatural angle, the first frost of the autumn coating its feathers in crystalline drops. Sherlock cradles it carefully in his hands, carries it back to the house and Mycroft appropriates the necessary tools to perform the autopsy, holding Sherlock’s fingers over the delicate handle of the scalpel, bending back the ribs, bringing out each fragile organ for Sherlock to cup in his palms and marvel at the size, the tiny instruments that allowed this creature to function. They examine and measure the feathers, the wingspan, the way the joints rotate and function.  
                Mycroft is equal parts fascinated by the bird in front of them and Sherlock’s reaction to it. He is thoughtful, quiet, but no less full of questions and demands. Determination and focus as he frowns at the careful notations they are making on a notepad of their findings. Mycroft finds he cannot stop staring and imagining, the whispers of who Sherlock might become in the future already manifesting in the precise steady movements of his hand now. He is in awe of this amalgamation of who his brother is and who he might be.  
                Sherlock glances up, catches him looking and cocks a smile that is part way on its way to a frown before it reaches his lips. For a moment they stare, caught up in the other rather than the task at hand, and then Mummy calls and Mycroft just about manages to haul Sherlock into the bathroom and clean the blood off his hands before he races out to see her and show her what they’ve been doing. She tuts and sighs and gasps at the bloody mangled wreck of body parts spread across the newspaper on Mycroft’s desk and demands that it be disposed of at once, which causes a Sherlock tantrum of epic proportions and the peace of the afternoon is shattered.

 vii)         Schoolwork intrudes, but Sherlock is six, seven, hiding under Mycroft’s desk with his spine pressed against Mycroft’s shins as he works through the advanced textbooks and passes down scraps of paper filled with equations and problems for Sherlock to solve. For all his double age on his brother, Mycroft feels closer to him than any other person. They are like two halves of a whole, separate entities that slot together, brain synapses firing through the air, passing through skin and glances, half formed thoughts and smiles until Mycroft knows Sherlock better than he knows himself, knows him  inside out, every gesture, every movement, can read him like a book, his own story slotting into the corresponding pages. He cannot help but study him, and Sherlock returns the favour, a constant symbiosis of thought and motion. A thread connection, stronger than anything, than anyone.  
                Mummy insists that Sherlock must learn an instrument – he must be an accomplished and refined young gentleman (she steadfastly refuses to acknowledge Sherlock’s almost bloodthirsty search for new knowledge to explore.) He goes through a cycle of instruments, each more loathed than the last (piano, flute, cello) before the last strikes something within him and Mummy consents to violin lessons. It is the first time that Mycroft has ever seen him so utterly focused on one thing for so long. Weeks of lessons, with Mycroft poised ready to step in as soon as Sherlock reaches his tolerance limit for tutoring, yet he shows no sign of boredom. He practices tirelessly and without complaint and soon the harsh shrieking of strings in-expertly bowed give way to music; recognisable pieces, coaxed melodies of such aching beauty that Mycroft takes to standing in the hall outside Sherlock’s bedroom just to listen to the haunting notes pulled up from the instrument.  
                The music tutor is astounded. Soon Sherlock has outgrown his skill and a new one is brought in. He gets through music tutors at the same rate as regular subject tutors, only instead of bullying them out, the music tutors teach him all they can before moving him on to someone better. Words like prodigy, professional classical violinist are bandied about, but Sherlock steadfastly refuses to bow to Mummy’s demands to perform. He adores his violin, it is like an extension of his body, but the only person other than his tutors that he consents to hear him play is Mycroft. It is heady to be so singled out, but Mycroft would not change it for the world, not when he can lean against the wall outside Sherlock’s room and listen to an outpouring of emotion that his little brother has no other ways to express.  
  
viii)         Sherlock gets hold of Mycroft’s science text books, flicks through the biology one and promptly discards it as useless, and then settles in with the chemistry and physics ones. Whilst the physics one reappears on Mycroft’s desk several days later, he has to go hunting for the chemistry one. He finds it, dog eared, covered in Sherlock’s scrawled notes in the margins, with a list of demands for chemistry supplies and equipment taped inside the front cover, tucked between Sherlock’s mattress and bedframe.  
                Mycroft appropriates some slides, beakers and pipettes and stores them on the top most shelf of his wardrobe away from prying eyes. He saves up his pocket money for months and just before Christmas sneaks to London on his own to buy a microscope for Sherlock for Christmas. Mummy has hysterics when he finally gets back to the house, long after dark, and Father takes him to his study for a lecture on responsibility and details precisely how disappointed he is in Mycroft’s behaviour. _He expected better._ Mycroft doesn’t care. It was worth it, all of it. Doubly so when Sherlock opens it on Christmas day and is struck dumb as he takes in the bold lettering across the top of the box.   
                He is speechless, a feat hitherto never accomplished, and Sherlock follows in Mycroft’s wake throughout the Christmas party, always within reaching distance (a curl of a finger against Mycroft’s jacket, an elbow brushing his spine as he turns.) Great Aunt Alice remarks that Sherlock is finally quietening down from a little heathen into a respectable young man and Mycroft glares at her as he pulls Sherlock away. Ever since Sherlock had learned to fish people’s secrets from their jewellery and clothes, an illusionist conjuring birds out of thin air, he has been regarded as something of an oddity by the extended family. Wry amusement from some of the more genial Aunts and Uncles, to downright loathing in the case of cousin Robert. More than one Christmas had ended with Mycroft going in search of Sherlock with a pocketful of mince pies after he had heard one too many sour comments regarding his difficult nature.  This year Sherlock does not disappear, he ignores everyone in the room except for Mycroft, and Mycroft in turn sneaks Sherlock some of the brandy soaked Christmas pudding with a wink and a smile.  
                He’s woken at some point in the depths of the night, long after the last dregs of family have left following the party, by cold feet on his shins as Sherlock climbs into the bed beside him and promptly burrows in amongst Mycroft’s arms and the duvet. He doesn’t need to feel the sleepy grin pressed into his chest or the tight curl of Sherlock’s fist into the front of his pyjamas to know that this is an extra thank you. Quiet gestures in the darkness to make up for words that don’t really need to be said out loud – they’ve already been said a hundred times in the little smiles and miniscule expressions on his brother’s face that tell Mycroft exactly what his gift means to him.

ix)           Mycroft hurries down to breakfast late one Saturday just after Sherlock’s birthday, only to discover Sherlock still sat at the breakfast table, Father’s newspaper unfurled in ragged sheets around him, and his unruly curls practically aquiver with indignation. He shakes the newspaper under Mycroft’s nose as he dishes himself out some of the eggs and toast from the array of dishes on the side.  
                “There’s something wrong with this My – it’s not right, they’ve got it wrong.” Mycroft takes the loose sheaf with a mournful sigh in the direction of his untouched breakfast. Sherlock scoffs, and raises an eyebrow that says exactly how much he thinks Mycroft requires food, and hauls his chair round the table until he is pressed against Mycroft’s arm, reading over his shoulder.  
                Mycroft scans the article carefully – a boy, Carl Powers, died tragically via seizure in the middle of a swimming in the annual Junior League competition. It is trite, filled with the usual phrases (waste of life, cusp of a great career, tragedy of youth) which Mycroft knows in this case to be utter rubbish. The boy was meek, no real brains – of no real use except in bringing medals to the school swimming team (he had met him, three times at local competitions when Carl’s school team had been bussed across to Mycroft’s.) He was good enough, but no prodigy, no real talent. He skims the article again, trying to pull out the salient facts from the dross.  
                Pushing the paper back across to Sherlock, Mycroft takes a measured sip of his coffee and finally starts on his rapidly cooling plate of food.  
                “Facts Sherlock, you must have facts to back up your hypothesis, you know this. What facts do you have to show this was nothing more than a simple accident?” There is nothing in the article that suggests foul play, yet Mycroft is inclined to agree with his younger brother – there is something off about this, something missed.  
                Sherlock grimaces, screws up his face and flops back into the chair, pulling pages with him, stealing a piece of Mycroft’s toast as he goes.  
                “He has no prior case of epilepsy – nor any in the family, it says it here. Why a seizure then, there, right where it would be so easy to not get to him in time. Any other time he would have been saved, the water was a key element, it cut down the time needed for him to be beyond help.” Sherlock makes a soft noise of frustration and thumps the paper down on the table. “Data, I need more data!” He sinks back down, muttering to himself as Mycroft finishes eating, before grabbing his sleeve as he starts to rise. “Can we go to the village My? I need all the other newspapers, they might have different facts in them – I have to piece them together, find the weak link that proves this wasn’t an accident.”  
                Mycroft eyes him for a moment, weighing the possibility of getting any work done whilst Sherlock is fixated on this case.  
                “If I take you in now you have to be quiet so I can work on my project.” Sherlock nods eagerly, already racing off to fetch shoes and a coat with a “Thanks My!” yelled back over one shoulder.

                The other newspapers do offer different details, and Sherlock spends the rest of the weekend spread across Mycroft’s floor scrawling notes and comparing each droplet of information contained in the articles. The Sunday papers offer even more, and soon he starts tacking them up on the walls, wandering round muttering to himself about clothes and timing and administration sites. He focuses with a level of concentration never normally devoted to anything other than their own independent studies and his violin lessons, and Mycroft is treated to some rare time to focus on his own projects without concocting divertissements for Sherlock’s entertainment.

                Sherlock goes missing just after lunch on Tuesday. The tutor who was supposed to be teaching him history, reports to Mummy that he never arrived after his designated hour for lunch. Mycroft arrives back home to a house in uproar, and promptly drops everything to conduct a thorough search of Sherlock’s room. If something had happened to him, if he had been taken against his will, then he would have left a sign, some signal to Mycroft, to find him, to help. The chance of kidnap in the manor is slim though, which means that Sherlock either wandered off in search of something and got distracted (in which case he surely would have returned by now) or there was something of vital importance he felt he had to do.  
                Sherlock’s room is a disaster of newspapers and notes stuck to walls, scribbles in Sherlock’s spidery script. Every surface bears some form of picture or article on the Carl Power’s tragedy, and as Mycroft sifts through the pages, he realises where Sherlock has gone. Part of him is ridiculously proud that his little brother has worked it out, pulled together enough evidence to show that Carl’s death was no accident – the other is horrified at the thoughts of his little brother wandering around London on his own. If he’d waited, just waited for Mycroft to get home from school they could have gone together. Now his head is filled with visions of Sherlock trying to navigate the streets of London on his own, seven, still tiny and breakable in Mycroft’s eyes. He is utterly terrified but he clamps down on it hard.  
                A quick phone call to New Scotland Yard confirms it, and Father leaves in the car to collect him whilst Mummy sobs and rages about Sherlock – oscillating from furious to utterly wretched with fear for her ‘baby’.  
                Sherlock is retrieved in one piece, and the arguments and lectures that follow his return are like nothing Mycroft has ever borne witness to before. Sherlock doesn’t cry or scream, he takes every word as though he understands he is due them, quiet and collected, but sitting tall with a fierce pride that tells Mycroft he wouldn’t have done it any differently.  
                Late that night when Sherlock’s punishment has been meted out and he has been sent to bed without supper, Mycroft slips into his room. He is already asleep but jolts awake as Mycroft creeps in and greets him with a grin.  
                “I did it My – I solved it.” His unfettered joy at his own genius almost makes Mycroft smile, but the threat and fear of the afternoon still linger so he tempers it and merely raises an eyebrow instead.  
                “Oh don’t scowl so, I had to go and tell them, I had to make sure they understood. His shoes My, his shoes are missing, that’s how it was done. I don’t know what he was given, they’d need to find the shoes and test them to work it out, but that’s how they got it into him. I don’t understand why though, that’s the only part I can’t piece together. He doesn’t appear to have any enemies, nor indeed have slighted anyone.” Sherlock trails off, caught up in his musings, and Mycroft steps lightly around the still scattered papers to perch on the bed.  
                “You can’t do that Sherlock – go running off like that without telling anyone.”  
                Sherlock pouts and folds his arms. “You knew where I was.”  
                “Yes, three hours after you’d already left.”  
                “I had to get there and tell them, I had to make them understand – ” Mycroft cuts him off sharply.  
                “You should have waited for me.” For a moment he allows his guard to drop and shows the true depth of his fear when he had heard that Sherlock was missing, and it is enough for Sherlock to stop, watching him quietly. There is contrition in the soft bow of his mouth, the over rapid blinks as he swallows tightly. Mycroft waits a moment, allowing him to process before saying softly. “What did they say when you told them?”  
                “They laughed at first, but then one of them said they’d look into it.” There is a bitter edge to his tone that tells Mycroft that he knows full well that they won’t, that they will never take the assertions of a seven year old seriously, and it infuriates him. To disregard such a lead based purely on the age of the informant is idiocy, and his fist clenches involuntarily at the look on Sherlock’s face.  
                “You still solved it.” He smiles softly and Sherlock beams back at him. It is scant consolation, but for now it is enough.

x)            Mycroft is worried. Father took him to London for the weekend – two days of being taught about the world out there that is waiting for him, the future that is already being carved out for him to inhabit – leaving Sherlock behind. Fresh from the car back, the house is silent around Mycroft and he cannot find any sign of Sherlock. He has searched everywhere, combing the house for the whirlwind of destruction his younger brother leaves behind, but all is quiet. Frighteningly so. He trudges back to his bedroom to unpack, worry gnawing at his insides until he opens the wardrobe door and promptly drops the shirt he had been about to hang up. Curled in the base of Mycroft’s wardrobe, in a nest of quilt and Mycroft’s own jumpers, is Sherlock.  
                He stares glassy eyed up at him and Mycroft drops to his knees, hand against Sherlock’s forehead to check for a fever.  
                “What are you doing Sherlock? Hiding in here – I’ve been looking for you everywhere. What’s wrong?” For a moment his brother is silent, and then he swallows, words tipping out, grated from a throat that sounds raw from screaming.  
                “It’s empty My – it’s all grey, there’s nothing, nothing, it doesn’t make sense.” He sounds so lost, frightened by whatever is inside his head, and Mycroft reaches out impulsively and grips hard onto Sherlock’s shoulder, trying to anchor him back from wherever he is. Lost, lost, somewhere deep inside his mind. “You left and the world died out, there’s nothing there, I can’t make anything work and there should be something, anything to try and alleviate the boredom, but there’s nothing, just space, and I can’t fill it, I’ve tried with music and equations and problems and words, but nothing sticks there’s just an empty buzzing and I can’t, I can’t make it go back, it’s broken, it made sense, everything glittered and made perfect sense – perfect clarity – but it’s gone and I can’t get it back, I can’t see the pieces – I’m broken and I don’t know what to do, how to make it stop, is this what normal people are like, people who aren’t like us, is this what it’s like in their heads My with the buzzing and the silence and the inability to _think_ , I just want to make it make sense again, find some sort of connection, it’s like everything’s gone and I can’t make it stop – turn it off, turn it off, God My please just _make it stop._ ”  
                Mycroft grabs Sherlock by his shirt front and hauls him to his chest, wrenching him in tight until the words are muffled into his own shirt. Hands fluttering useless, god why are they useless? He soothes his fingers through Sherlock’s hair, leans down and speaks words – equations, problems, riddles, talking round in circles and through them, how to solve them, trying to help to mend the gaps, rebuild the collapsed pathways in Sherlock’s thoughts. And eventually he starts to settle, his breathing evens out, gentling into a heavy slumber draped against Mycroft, half in half out of the wardrobe. He realises that this may be the first sleep Sherlock has succumbed to since he left for London and he curses himself quietly for leaving in the first place.  
                He eases back, stretching out cramped leg muscles and shifting to lean against the wardrobe fully, trying not to jostle his sleeping brother too much. He snuffles and then curls in tighter and Mycroft can hear the thump of Sherlock’s heart echoed in his own chest as he rests. His dual heart, the other pieces of himself kept in Sherlock’s form. He knows what Sherlock’s talking about – the crushing boredom where meaning and colour seep out of the world and it becomes an effort just to breathe. He has seen it, tasted it, peered over into the abyss and taken a step back. Sheer force of will, to put up walls in his mind, to control the impulses that Sherlock seems to delight in and stave off the crushing apathy and stop it from atrophying his muscles. His mind decaying as the sun rises and sets in an endless repetition.  
                Sherlock has no control – not like that. He is a constant satellite of fierce energy burning up, heating up the very air around him with his sheer bloody mindedness and determination. Genius blasting through his mind and leaving a neurological wasteland. He can see it all, but he hasn’t yet learned to control it, to filter, to put it in orderly stacks in his mind to sift through. Mycroft shifts his soft hair through his fingers and rests his cheek against his head. That will simply have to be Mycroft’s job then. Until Sherlock can put up the barriers in his mind necessary to stop the colour leeching out, the buzzing static of emptiness creeping in, Mycroft will simply have to be the barrier himself.

                He wakes, stiff and sore from sleeping on the floor with Sherlock’s dead weight on his chest. But he feels happier, lighter, clearer in his mind. He needs to keep Sherlock occupied, give him more to keep him entertained, distractions, more than the simple pieces of paper scribbled with numbers and formulas that have made up so much of their entertainment over the last few months.  
                After the (moderate) success of Sherlock’s foray into detection over Carl Powers, Mycroft starts stockpiling newspapers, rifling through them for murders, unexplained mysteries, the odd things, the ones no one seems to be able to solve, the ones marked inexplicable by the police. Mycroft bribes Browning the butler to help him get hold of new information – telephone calls to Scotland Yard to glean a few more details to parse together.  
                Sherlock lights up with every new one, each piece of information slotted together to create a fantastic new whole. Photographs, statements, the trite little accessories the reporters insist on adding in – between them they pull them apart like cotton wool. That shoe size, shape, make, distinctive pattern (it was the brother, after the inheritance.) The state of the wedding ring (missing, notably, three days after the death) mean that it was a deliberate hit. Coupled with the swelling found in the extremities, definitely poison. It is all laid out, a thousand little details that no-one else seems capable of seeing in their entirety. They keep a record – a scrapbook of cases solved between them – tucked into the bottom drawer of Mycroft’s desk. After the first three, and the resounding failure of the authorities to pay them any attention over Carl Powers, they don’t bother telling anyone their findings. Why bother educating the idiots if they will do nothing but look down on them and continue to ignore their answers? Instead it becomes a game – how quickly they can solve them, how many clues they need to piece it together, when they need more information how quickly they can coax it from the police.  
                One case involves a particularly good pick pocket, and Sherlock is filled with curiosity – how did he do it, how easy would it be, what is the likelihood of being able to plant the evidence in the time needed whilst remaining undetected? It sparks off another game, one that Mycroft is more than happy to play – he has always wanted someone to practice with. Simple things first on simple people. The maids find coins appear and disappear, keys and trinkets that get misplaced only to show up a few hours later somewhere else. Sherlock thrives on the challenge, the focus, the art form to get it just right so that the person never notices the added weight of a sleight of hand, or the sudden emptiness of sly fingers. He loves sparking off Mycroft, trying to beat him, to one up the things they steal, the people they dupe – he makes off with Father’s wallet after a lecture and Mycroft can’t help the sudden burst of laughter when Sherlock produces it that night at dinner, passing it back to their father over the roast chicken. To slip something (anything) past their father is an incredible feat, but something as bulky and obvious as his wallet is the pinnacle, and Mycroft concedes that Sherlock has won that round. Mycroft’s own pick pocketing skills have improved, the challenge of his little brother keeping him sharp and practiced and despite Sherlock’s growing skill at sleight of hand and manipulation, Mycroft can lift or plant almost anything on Sherlock that he fancies, a trick guaranteed to earn him a scowl as soon as he realises that Mycroft has slipped one by him.

xi)           Mycroft starts taking Sherlock out – afternoons in the village turn into weekends in London, utilising the town house with Father’s permission. They go to museums and galleries, exhibitions and lectures, and once they’ve grown tired of the information, Mycroft teaches him how to hone his talents, how to observe. Sherlock has already proven that he notices everything – it is a frightening scope of constant information that seeps into his brain. A thousand tiny details that Sherlock cannot help but take in, analyse, file away; but he doesn’t know what to do with them. They sit together on benches, in cafes, and watch. Sherlock’s dark head bent to Mycroft, eyes wide, skittering over every detail he can parse from the people that walk past.  
                Mycroft pulls apart each person they see, dropping words of explanation and analysis into Sherlock’s ears. Whispers that curl into his mind, handing over tools to pry apart the flesh and bones of each person – perform an autopsy to break apart their life and secrets into splinters they can hold up to the light and analyse. It is a game, and each time Sherlock pry’s another secret loose he looks to Mycroft with eyes still too big for his face – open and hopeful and delighted as Mycroft smiles back.  
                Sherlock is a natural, he can read people as easily as any book, as easily as Mycroft can. Mycroft can barely contain his excitement, the thrill at not being alone in this, at being able to see, to share, to understand. For Sherlock to raise his eyebrows over a tie, a smudge, a scuff mark on a shoe, and glance at Mycroft, and everything is understood. They don’t need words, they have created their own language – the two of them in a techni-colour world that no-one else can even imagine, let alone see. It is bliss, (it is perfection,) and Mycroft’s ribs feel as though they are tightening, constricting him every time he tries to breathe from the sheer brilliance of it all.

xii)          Sherlock’s eight, nine, and for his birthday Mycroft arranges an extra present, one that their parents aren’t aware of, gifted in the middle of the night; secrets exchanged between dark sheets and the stripe of moonlight that falls down the centre of Sherlock’s room as Mycroft hands him a soft leather pouch with a slight skew of his lips into a smirk.  
                Sherlock unwraps it carefully, revealing nine sharp picks, (each with their own unique twists in the metal,) and three tension wrenches of varying sizes. His eyes widen, as he takes in the delicate picks, running his fingers over the run of them lightly before raising his eyes back to Mycroft who has been watching his reaction closely.  
                “My…” His voice trails off in awe and he slides one of the picks free, testing the heft and weight in his hands – long fingers wrapping easily around the covered grips. They were made for him. Exacting dimensions and demands to create the perfect set for him; they fit into Sherlock’s palms like soft extensions of his fingers and he cannot contain the bubble of glee that expands in his chest. He slides the pick back into its slot reverently, wrapping and placing them on the bedside table, hands shaking slightly, before turning back to Mycroft fully.  
                “Thank you.” The words are quiet, awed almost. Mycroft reaches out blindly and Sherlock scrambles closer, a solid press of weight against his side.  
                “You’re welcome – but if you ever use them on something I’ve told you not to go in you will regret it.” The words don’t hold much weight behind them, not when Sherlock’s long limbs are wrapped so securely around him, tight like a lynch pin and Mycroft feels as though part of him is fracturing, pushing through his ribs to live in his little brother who will guard it, keep it safe. Sentimental, idiocy, Mycroft tries to shake the thought, but he cannot quite persuade himself of it when he can feel Sherlock’s heart beating through his chest and in the pulse at his throat, pressed against Mycroft’s cheek.

                The puzzle of the lock picks keeps Sherlock occupied for several weeks. He practices on every lock he can find, perfecting the art of learning each lock and how to tease it into submission. Mycroft wonders briefly if he should be concerned at the aptitude his brother is showing for the criminal arts, but he brushes it off. Regardless of the directions Sherlock thinks about taking his new found talents, Mycroft will always be right there to bring him back round again. So instead of worrying, trying to see four moves ahead as he does with everything else, he simply relaxes and watches as his little brother learns how to turn the wrench just so, to choose which pick will coax the lock into opening. He times him, finding increasingly complex locks for Sherlock to test himself against, and just when he is on the cusp of complaining that it is too easy, that there’s no challenge anymore, Mycroft smiles that knowing smile that tells Sherlock he is about to be out maneuvered – barely a glimpse of it before Sherlock finds himself handcuffed to the chair legs and left to find his own way out.  
                Mycroft knew he would retaliate, (it is Sherlock after all,) and he wakes one morning a week later to find that his arm has gone dead, tethered to the headboard by one wrist and the police issued handcuffs Mycroft has been taunting him with all week. He smirks, he’d been expecting something like this since the night that he first introduced the handcuffs, and had been sleeping with his own set of lock picks under his pillow just in case. He’s surprised Sherlock didn’t make it harder by doing both hands, but it is clear when Mycroft steps into Sherlock’s room two minutes later that his little brother had underestimated him, if the way his jaw unhinges at the sight of Mycroft unbound and looking mildly amused in his doorway is anything to go by. It begins a ridiculous game, each trying to get one over the other. Sherlock manages to slip the cuffs around one of Mycroft’s ankles whilst he’s working at his desk, and Mycroft responds in kind by hooking the cuffs (with Sherlock locked inside them) over the coat pegs on the back of his door. Sherlock can barely attempt to unlock them for the first few minutes because one look at Mycroft’s face sends them both into a fit of laughter at the idiocy of the situation.  

xiii)         Sherlock cannot hold his thoughts into himself, hasn’t learned to filter what should stay in the confines of his head, (wait to be whispered to Mycroft in the dark,) and what is allowed to trip past his lips and fall into unsuspecting ears. He doesn’t understand that people do not like to be pried apart, secrets turned out like pockets for his own amusement and examination.   
                Mycroft runs, pelting through the rain, desperate not to slip on the wet grass as he tries to reach Sherlock in time. He’s at the other end of the park – snuck off whilst Mycroft was at school even though he isn’t supposed to go to the village alone. And now he is facing down two boys, twice his age and size, and Mycroft can hear him, hear the words pouring from his mouth, (observations, deductions, explanations and rebuttals,) and for the first time in his life Mycroft wishes that Sherlock would just stop talking – just for a moment, just to give Mycroft a chance to reach him.  
                The first punch sends Sherlock sprawling backwards, and he instinctively curls up into a ball as a kick to his side swiftly follows. Sherlock is shouting now, anger rising up to try and hide the fear and the pain. The second boy raises his fist again as Sherlock brings his arms up to try and protect himself and he’s still so small, so fragile, still Mycroft’s little brother and it _hurts_ inside.  
                Mycroft slides in before the blow can land, deflecting with his arm as he brings his other up to punch the boy hard in the jaw. He knows how to defend himself, knows the principle, the theory, the ideas and movements, but it all sweeps away beneath his utter anger and fury that these cretins have decided to pick on his little brother for being smarter than them, for being able to think, to see the world. It infuriates him and pulses through his veins as he blindly pummels every inch of flesh and bone he can reach.  
                They stumble back, desperate to put distance between the hell fire Mycroft has become and their battered bodies. Eyes wide from fear, from shock at this unexpected defence of the ten year old they had started in on. When they run Mycroft lets them go, waits for them to get a few meters away, (no sign of turning back,) before he drops to Sherlock still huddled on the ground.  
                Sherlock is a mess of blood and bruises and wide angry eyes. He’s shaking, but whether it’s from fear or hatred Mycroft doesn’t ask, knowing it will only serve to upset Sherlock further to have his perceived weaknesses pointed out to him. Mycroft runs a finger gently across the edges of the bruise forming on Sherlock’s cheek, then offers his hand to help Sherlock up.  
                They walk back to the house in silence, and Mycroft carefully sponges off the blood and patches Sherlock up once they are warm and dry. Sherlock shivers and Mycroft doesn’t comment, and the careful curl of Sherlock’s little finger against the fabric of Mycroft’s trousers tell him that he’s grateful. Late that night Mycroft pads softly to Sherlock’s room, following the muffled sound of sobbing. He slides into Sherlock’s bed and pulls him close and doesn’t say a word. Sherlock cries into Mycroft’s side until eventually his tears run dry and he sleeps. Mycroft can’t sleep, just concentrates on the soft rise and fall of his brother’s breathing, the comforting thrum of his heartbeat through his chest, and vows that no-one will ever hurt his little brother again. He will break this world, shape a new one, one that will not mock or taunt or butcher his brother – one where he doesn’t need to be afraid. No matter what the cost, Mycroft will protect him.

xiv)         Sherlock is eleven and no longer tutored at home, for the first time in his life he is surrounded by other children his own age. He is brimming with excitement the night before the first day of term, he can barely sleep, bombarding Mycroft with questions and theories and imaginings of what his classmates will be like, what they might learn, the friends he will make. Mycroft holds his tongue, because he refuses to let his own experiences colour Sherlock’s.  
                His heart breaks the following day when Sherlock returns home, jaded, outcast, already branded a myriad of cruel names for his intelligence, his perception, his ability to be more than all of the rest of them put together. He refuses to talk about it, even to Mycroft, staying quiet and withdrawn throughout dinner and well into the night. It is only when Mycroft slips into Sherlock’s bedroom, (insomnia guiding his feet along the carpet runner in the hall to his little brother’s bedroom) that Sherlock finally breaks. He doesn’t say anything. (Doesn’t need to, their taunts and barbs are writ clean across his face.) Mycroft goes to him, crawls into the other side of the bed but doesn’t reach for him, pull him across and wrap him up as he longs to; his little baby brother, who deserves so much more than the hand he is being dealt. Mycroft simply stretches out a hand across the vast space of crisp white sheet between them, a silent offering of support, solidarity. Sherlock hesitates and then grabs hold of Mycroft’s fingers, twisting his own to fill the gaps. No matter what the rest of the world says, they have each other; they will always have each other.

 xv)         Mycroft turns 18 and the next step in the logical progression is to leave for university. Only logic has nothing to do with the ache in his chest as he watches Sherlock on the front steps of the house as the car rounds the bend in the drive and out of sight. Logic has nothing to do with the tight fist of misery he carries around in his chest like a stone whenever he thinks of Sherlock alone in that massive house full of emptiness and memories. But he cannot stay at home forever, nor can he bring Sherlock with him, so he pastes on the mask of polite interest and sows the seeds of the future.   
                He charms his way into the good graces of those who wield power and influence now, those who will become powerful, and those who he would rather have in his debt. He trades favours and information, collecting a web of intrigue and scandals, information that help him climb. He watches, he waits, he befriends and he manipulates, and thinks of a promise made in the dark. Every skill he has honed with Sherlock, every lesson his father taught him, all are brought out to play and he relishes the thrill of the game, the twist of the strings – works hard for his degree, and even harder for his future.  
                He writes to Sherlock, sends him letters and puzzles, bits of information, character traits that he knows his brother will pull apart, (dissect and laugh,) just as Mycroft does. It is a point of touching, a connection, a reference point to find each other by, and Sherlock responds, sending back letters in code. Short missives that give nothing away, and leave everything open to Mycroft to intuit.  
                Mummy calls, regular updates to tell him about home, about Sherlock. How sullen he’s become. Frustrations and anxiety that he is slipping away, that he is becoming _difficult._ Mycroft cannot stand the thought of Sherlock growing up, growing apart (falling apart, coming apart at the seams) in that house, he knows what that is like, remembers the crushing absence of sound, the emptiness and the miles and miles of corridors leading nowhere but back in no matter how fast you run. He can imagine Sherlock with his lightning fast determination, burning bright, hot, sharp, nothing to temper him, to ground him, nothing to try and dampen the effects of his tongue and his brain and his single minded determination to knowseefeeltouchheartaste everything around him until he goes supernova, and it’s not a guess but a fact that when he does, when the boredom stretches him too far, he will burn up and take everything with him. He will burn and everything he touches will burn with him, and Mycroft will be here surrounded by thoughtless, mindless idiots who can’t seem to _think_ can’t seem to _see_ the world around them, (not like he does, not like Sherlock does.) He feels a stab of pain every time he thinks that, a sharp ache of misery and missing until he throws his books and clothes into a bag and leaves for the weekend, calling for a car to take him home. He can’t bear the thought of Sherlock setting the world on fire – he should be there to stop it, or if he looks closely, pulls out the fragments of truth hidden deep inside his heart, he wants to be there by his side to watch it go up in flames.   
                By the time he reaches the house it is long past when Sherlock would have gone to bed, and Mycroft bids a quiet hello and goodnight to his parents with an explanation of stress, studies, too noisy in his halls, wanting the peace and quiet of home for the weekend. He drops his bag in his room, paces fitfully, burning with energy until he feels like he might go supernova instead of Sherlock. Maybe it is catching, this feeling of being too confined in your skin, of feeling the neurons firing but being too trapped to let them go anywhere, connect with anything. He changes into his pyjamas, splashes cold water on his face, runs it over his wrists until he can breathe, until he hears his parents close their own bedroom door, and then he slips out. Pushes open Sherlock’s door, just to look, to see, to reassure himself that everything is fine, everything is as it should be.  
                He can see the huddle of his brother in the centre of the bed and feels the tension drop from his shoulders, lighter and heavier all at once. He breathes. He can’t seem to back away, go back to bed, shut the door and move. The light must have disturbed Sherlock because he’s moving, shifting to sit up, blinking blearily at the open door. Once, twice, and then his eyes open wide and he scrambles upright.  
                “My? What are you doing here?” Mycroft tempers the wild grin he can feel lurking beneath his skin and instead curls a corner of his mouth up in a smirk. It is enough. Sherlock knows precisely how pleased Mycroft is to see him. He knows it in the twist of his mouth, the arch of his eyebrow, the crease of his pyjamas flung on in haste, the slow burn of the cold water droplet running down the side of his neck.  
                “I thought I should come and check you hadn’t burnt the house down.” Sherlock’s eyes gleam in the shock of light, reflecting back amusement and the same deep bone relief that Mycroft himself has felt since slipping open the door. It is like a rubber band twisting too tight, pressure suddenly eased and he can breathe again.  
                For a moment they just look at each other, assessing the weeks apart, (the differences, the similarities) and then Sherlock shifts, pulls his duvet down a fraction. He’s still soft and blurred around the edges with sleep and Mycroft cannot help but want to be closer, to reassure himself that Sherlock is fine, (they are both fine) and he is tired, oh so tired, (and it is nothing that they haven’t done before) so he slides beneath the skin warmed sheets and closes his eyes. And when Sherlock reaches across the distance, (inches, centimetres, space, space, space) and twines his fingers around Mycroft’s, he can do nothing but breathe as he slips into sleep.

                Mycroft wakes slowly, the kind of sleep that lingers and curls around his thoughts as he drifts lazily on currents with his eyes still closed against the sunlight. He is warm and relaxed for the first time since he left for Cambridge, the sort of feeling that leaves him liquid seeping into the mattress in comfort and supplication. He stretches, bones cracking, muscles languid and the weight of Sherlock sleeping against his chest to keep him grounded. He glances down at his brother. (The soft lines of his face in sleep, the shock of curls, pillow flattened on one side, the fingers fisted in Mycroft’s t-shirt as he turns away from the sunlight creeping in through the curtains.)  
                He watches and he wonders. About them, this odd symbiosis between them. Because it isn’t normal, not by the average definition of the word. Because Sherlock is eleven, twelve, and Mycroft is eighteen, nineteen, and what was once childish comfort and ritual cannot be disguised so anymore. It still offers comfort, the warm lean length of his brother curled around him, weighting him, steadying him, reminding him who he is and who they are – who they are becoming. And Mycroft doesn’t want to ruin that, say a word, inflict a social standard and watch Sherlock cut off from him, disassociate and disengage and become more lonely than he already is. Watch them both become isolated and lonely.  
                No, it is idiocy to bend to other people’s standards. Never over this. Never over his brother. Mycroft is too hesitant to lose this, lose Sherlock, lose that sense of connection that only clicks back into place when he is with him. He brings one hand up and lightly cards Sherlock’s curls through his fingers until he stirs, shifting, pressing hard for one instant from chest to knees against Mycroft’s body. Then he is moving, eyes flickering open to examine Mycroft, sifting through his expressions, dissecting and pulling apart his train of thought. Mycroft levels his gaze and allows him to tease out the information he wants. Watches as Sherlock considers, turning the thoughts over and over in his mind, and then quirks his lip, a barely there motion that has Mycroft smirking. Trust Sherlock to not give a damn about social conventions. Sherlock eyes him speculatively for a moment longer, quiet and watchful in the early morning stillness. Nothing but their heartbeats and soft breaths disturbing the air. The moment stretches, twisting in on itself until Mycroft has to remind himself to draw a breath. (Another and another.)Then Sherlock is gone, twisting out from under the sheets and padding softly to the bathroom to shower and begin the day again.

xvi)         It is like watching a time release snapshot of photographs with each snatched weekend home, the longer weeks of Christmas, Easter, Summer. Mycroft splits his time between cultivating the world he is growing at university, and seeing Sherlock. Sherlock who is twelve, thirteen, fourteen, long limbs, all elbows and knees and sharp angles that he doesn’t yet know how to manage. Each time he comes home it takes time, takes a little longer for them to relax, to re-learn how to be brothers, how to understand each other. It isn’t that they forget, simply that the space between grows wider. Mycroft comes home to Sherlock watching, always watching warily for the day that he will come home and not be him, be someone else, someone who doesn’t accept Sherlock for who he is. It never happens.  
                The first night, once the stiff collar has been undone, the tie cast off, rumpled pyjamas take their place and lines relax. Sherlock will pad softly to Mycroft’s door and eye him speculatively for a moment until Mycroft catches his eye and that slow, shy smile appears, and nothing has changed. Nothing will ever change.  
                Mycroft will share stories of university, and Sherlock will be coaxed into talking about school, rarely about the students, more likely about the teachers, about the studies, the experiments, the advanced programme they have conceded to since Sherlock learnt the syllabus when Mycroft taught him, under the desk in paper notes and equations.  
                The moon will slide across the floor, set, leave them in darkness, and nothing has changed. Sherlock is still his little brother, with the too wide eyes and a riot of dark curls, and he is still the only one who truly understands Mycroft. They fall asleep tangled between the sheets, space now, centimetres, inches separating – the brush of a hand, the curl of a fist in a t-shirt, quiet touches, unmentioned, always gone by morning when Mycroft wakes and Sherlock has snuck back to his own room.

xvii)        Sherlock is fourteen, fifteen, sixteen, and Mycroft finishes at Cambridge and moves to London. He undertakes internships and placements, utilising contacts and promises, bribes and whispered words that can topple an empire, and begins to manoeuvre into place – the place he has always envisioned for himself. The hub, the centre, the cog that no-one notices holding the machine together. Mycroft knows what is expected of him, a life in politics like their Father, but he doesn’t want it, doesn’t want the languid boredom and scandals and growing fat off others work. He wants to take it apart piece by piece.   
                Such a dirty word manipulation, but Mycroft knows he is good at it – good is an understatement. Whilst Sherlock sees everything, (a scope of sight that hurts Mycroft’s mind just to think about, all those tiny details clamouring for attention,) Mycroft knows how to see people, how to twist them, warp them, play them like Sherlock does his violin – coaxing, torturing, teasing, but always to his own tune. He can see the consequences, plan out five moves ahead, twist the strings and watch them dance. Because what good is all this ability to see, to manipulate, to play, if it is not used? What good is it to have all of that and not to play for power? He is settling down at the high stakes tables but this time instead of playing for Sherlock’s pocket money and favours, he is playing for their lives. The ability to protect Sherlock, to tear down the world and all its unkindness and cruelties and re-make it as he sees fit.  
  
xviii)       He comes home one evening, three days after moving into the new flat, (a pretty affair in Kensington that will do for the moment) to discover he has a parcel. Long, thin, the unmistakable scrawl of his brother’s handwriting on the address label. The letters have become less and less frequent, and Mycroft bites his lip hard when he realises his hands are shaking. He ignores them, quickly pulls off the wrapping and tape, and lifts the lid on the box. Inside is a perfectly normal black umbrella, with a small cream card tucked into the tie.

                _Apparently it always rains in London. – S_

                Mycroft cannot help but laugh. He runs his finger across the mess of inked letters, lingering on the S for a moment, then brushes off the sentiment and tucks the card into his breast pocket. He never leaves the flat without the umbrella, whether there is a hint of rain or not.

 xix)        There is a crisis in government, a bill of reform that absolutely must go through despite the blocks and idiocies being thrown up at every turn, and Mycroft almost doesn’t make it home for Sherlock’s sixteenth birthday.  
                The clock strikes nine and Mycroft puts the phone into its cradle and sags back into his chair. At last everything has been sorted, and he has more than missed Sherlock’s birthday dinner. For one brief moment Mycroft considers just telephoning, making his apologies and excuses and allowing himself a rare early night. But just the thought of missing Sherlock, of missing even the tiny sliver of birthday there is left, is enough to make his gut clench. Instead he stands, shrugs his jacket on, picks up his umbrella and makes his way out to the waiting car.  
                It is almost eleven by the time he lets himself into the house, already dark and shut up for the night, and he makes his way quietly through gloomy corridors, up the grand staircase that carves out the centre of the house, careful to mind the eleventh and twenty third steps which both creak horrendously. Moonlight bands the corridor of the east wing where Sherlock’s and his own bedrooms are situated, and he finds his muscle memory guiding him without thought across the dodgy patches, the floorboards that will give away his presence.   
                He eases his way into Sherlock’s room, unsurprised to find a light still on, a small pool of gold in amongst the shadows that show his dark profile balanced in the window seat, window thrown wide to let out the smoke from his lit cigarette.  
                For a moment Mycroft simply leans against the door in silence, taking in his little brother (not so little anymore, long lines folded up awkwardly on the window seat) as he unconsciously relaxes. Already the office seems far away, a hazy dream against the stark contrasts of Sherlock.  
                Sherlock doesn’t acknowledge him, doesn’t need to, Mycroft can read it all from him like a book. The tension in his shoulders, the stark cords of muscle in his neck _(I didn’t think you were going to come.)_ The careless grip on the cigarette, Sherlock will insist on holding it like a joint between thumb and forefinger ( _today was despicable)_ – the cigarette itself _(argument with Father.)_  
                He picks his way carefully through the piles of books and clothes and equipment scattered across the floor in some semblance of order known only by Sherlock, until he can slide onto the other end of the window seat and look out across the grounds. His brother pulls out another cigarette from the packet stashed under his thigh, and passes it across to Mycroft without really looking at him – nothing more than sidelong glances under obscenely long lashes that sweep across his cheek with every blink.  
                Sherlock leans forward then, touching the smouldering tip of his own half smoked cigarette against the unlit end of Mycroft’s, cupping a hand around them to shield them as he breathes, flaring the end and letting it catch gently on the paper of Mycroft’s. His breath fans across Mycroft’s cheeks, his lips, shockingly intimate and he breathes in sharply, trying to ignore the rush of heat across his cheeks, the sudden ache in his chest, until the tip catches and Sherlock sits back, pulling the cigarette out from between his lips and trails a slow breath of smoke tendrils into the cool night air slipping around the open window.  
                Mycroft inhales, the smoke hitting the back of his throat and filling his lungs before he exhales firmly, twisting his wrist to tap the ash out of the window. For a moment he simply savours the slight buzz of sensations, the thrumming in his veins from the nicotine, and the singular pleasure of sharing this with his brother instead of sitting in his own room smoking alone. Then he holds out the three wrapped gifts he has brought with him. Sherlock eyes them speculatively, his glance flicking up to examine Mycroft’s face before he reaches out to take them, brushing his thumb against the sharp jut of Mycroft’s wrist as he lifts them from his grip. It is a silent acknowledgement for Mycroft’s mute plea for forgiveness, for being so late, for leaving him to their parents and the vultures throughout the day. Not yet an acceptance – that is reserved for after Sherlock has opened the gifts.  
                He peels back the paper of the largest, and the flicker of a smile touches the left corner of his mouth as he takes in the title (inlaid, gold leaf, French) and opens it up to glance inside (first edition, incredibly rare, Mycroft had spent weeks tracking it down.) Sherlock touches the pages reverently, fingertips tracing the words, before his eyes flick up to Mycroft’s, letting him see the pleasure there. Mycroft knows his brother well, knows he wants to spend hours pouring over the text, reading and re-reading and committing each phrase and twist of language to his memory, but the lure of present’s yet unopened is even stronger. He places the book gently on the seat next to him, nestling it carefully to ensure it doesn’t fall, before moving on to the next gift. Weightier than the first but still undeniably book shaped, the eighteenth century text on Chemistry is enough for the gleam of the smile to move up to his eyes as he thumbs through the pages, leg shifting until his shin is pressed against Mycroft’s thigh.  
                Mycroft watches him, trying to hide his smile behind the repetitive motion of smoking, and waits for him to reach the last gift. Small, a flat box that opens easily to reveal a key. No note, (there is no need) Sherlock knows that it is a key to the flat in Kensington and precisely what it symbolises – escape, refuge, time in the hub of bustle and activity that is London – time with Mycroft.  
                Sherlock removes the key, head tipped so low that Mycroft can only sense the smile he knows graces his lips as he slides the key into his front pocket before looking up, a quick glance, (mute thanks, gratitude, forgiveness for abandoning him during the day) and slides his leg more firmly against Mycroft’s own lifting the cigarette to his lips.  
                He tilts his head back against the wood panelling behind, throat exposed to the soft light filtering in through the window and Mycroft is struck again with how much his little brother has grown, will grow, continue on into this person made up of memories and experiences and it is almost too much for him to fathom. His throat aches from words and sentiments he doesn’t want to speak, so he watches instead.  
                They sit through most of the night, working their way through the packet of Father’s cigarettes that Sherlock had liberated from his study until the sky lightens, greying against the oncoming dawn. Mycroft stands, unwinds muscles cramped too long in one position, straightens his rumpled suit and pulls on his jacket once more. He has a meeting with the French ambassador, dossiers to go through that had already begun to creep in before he left last night. Another day of smiles and protocol. Sherlock glances up at him as he moves, and for a moment the two just stare at each other, caught up in a hundred little silent exchanges, flickers of conversation that require no words. After a moment Mycroft smiles slightly, then turns to pick up his umbrella where it leans against the wall and doesn’t comment when he feels the edge of Sherlock’s little finger running lightly against the seam in his trouser leg as he passes.  
                He slips from the house silently, (their parent’s will never know he has even been) and refuses to look back to the windows, counting up and across until he reaches the one he knows Sherlock will be looking from. He slides into the car and leaves, and refuses to look back until the bend in the drive is almost upon him and he can barely see the pale smudge in the second floor window watching him leave.

xx)          The car pulls up to the house on December 23rd and Mycroft feels a piece of himself slot back into place like a dislocated bone – the pain he hadn’t even realised he was carrying easing back into a dull ache as he is ushered inside the house. Mummy greets him, freesias and warm hugs and a gentle kiss on the cheek, admonishments that he hasn’t been eating, (he’s too thin, he’s working himself too hard,) before shooing him upstairs to change for dinner.  
                “The Gardener’s are here for dinner darling so make sure you wear something nice.”   
                He trudges up the stairs, tiredness dragging at him, too many late nights spent going over endless reams of paperwork, and the thought of a meal of more than just family is enough to start a headache at the base of his skull. He is home but not relaxed, not back to how it should be, not yet. He has not seen Sherlock since his sixteenth birthday, the key as yet unused. He has missed his brother like a constant ache, a bruise he cannot help but touch to feel the pain, to know that it is still there. They have still written letters – puzzles, codes, enigmas and configurations, but the replies have been sparser than they used to be, a slow snip severing of ties that he hasn’t had the time to knot back together.  
                He is halfway through changing, buttoning up a crisp white shirt and tucking it swiftly into his trousers when he becomes aware that he is being watched.  
                Sherlock lounges in the doorway and for a moment Mycroft hesitates. It is his brother and yet not; a stranger superimposed on top of the rudiments of the boy Mycroft said goodbye to eleven months ago. Sharp edges and angles that were waiting to become the young man lounging so elegantly against the door frame. It is Sherlock, in his eyes, in the dark hair curling rampantly at his collar, in the long fingers and bored sardonic smirk lingering at the corner of his mouth. And yet it is not in the long lean lines, dinner jacket thrown carelessly over shoulders that have filled out, bones still sharp against paper white skin that Mycroft can see from his open collar. He is still lithe, thin in a way that Mycroft has never been (but is quickly veering to from too much work and too little relaxation.) He is almost as tall as Mycroft now, angles hidden away, awkwardness smoothed over, until he takes a few steps into the room and Mycroft sees the lingering traces of doubt, a carefulness to his movements that show he is not yet sure where he is in relation to the world.  
                For a moment they do nothing but stare at each other, taking in the changes, readjusting, recalibrating for this new development, the sudden onslaught of age that sees them more equals now than they ever have been before. And then Sherlock speaks and Mycroft catches his breath to hear the sound. It is dark, broken now and he is suddenly painfully aware of just how much time he has missed, just how much of _Sherlock_ he has missed, and in that moment the gap between them is insurmountable.  
                “So you do remember where we live.” Sherlock raises one eyebrow and stares at Mycroft and he has to work to keep the chuckle locked in his throat. He swallows convulsively and deliberately turns away, concentrating on doing up the last of buttons.  
                “I see you finally gave in to Mummy’s demands to wear a suit.” Sherlock huffs and to Mycroft it sounds like laughter as he slouches back against the dresser. His nonchalance isn’t fooling Mycroft though, he can see the lines of stark tension practically vibrating through Sherlock even though he is pretending to be completely unaffected.  
                “Shouldn’t you be wearing stripes? They would at least attempt to make you look slimmer.” Sherlock inspects his nails idly and Mycroft swallows against a hundred things he wants to say. He wants to step in close, demand to see the little brother he left, the one he knows is in there underneath this guise of snarky adulthood. He wants to know why Sherlock suddenly has the power to suck all the air out of the room and fill in all the spaces in Mycroft’s head until it feels as though he is drowning. The sound of Sherlock’s voice pooling out like water to lap at their feet and Mycroft can’t get a deep enough breath, wants to stretch out of his skin, tear at his hair until it stops feeling so electric and becomes just them, them against the world, them in their own world. Nothing else matters, nothing, nothing, nothing.   
                Mycroft holds his breath and holds his tongue and hopes that Sherlock doesn’t notice the slight tremor in his hands as he picks out a tie to wear. But he does, of course he does, he is the other half of Mycroft’s mind and he notices everything, even without looking he can see Mycroft, know every dark thought and impulse held in check. He knows because he can feel it too, Mycroft is sure of it.  
                His hands tremble and Sherlock takes a step, two, three across the room, pulling Mycroft’s tie from his hands, looping it around his neck and twisting it into an elegant knot – a parody of when Mycroft used to do the same for Sherlock when he was too young to know how to knot a tie properly. Sherlock smooth’s down the front, quickly fastens the buttons of Mycroft’s waistcoat over the top and tugs his jacket straight, only then does he meet his eyes. It’s a quick glance and a half smile and it is nothing at all and absolutely everything rolled into one. It is uncertainty and a promise and a snapshot of the little brother he knows is inside this collected stranger. But then he’s stepping back with a lazy smirk and it’s noise and company and polite smiles and dinner conversation all the while keeping half an eye on Sherlock, slouching in his seat and picking at his food and shooting half glances back at him across the table.  
                Later, much later, when the house is silent and dark, (dinner long finished, guests long gone) Mycroft stumbles up from sleep to the dip of the mattress behind him. The long careful lines that stretch out on the other side of the bed, careful, oh so careful not to touch, to not complete the circuit and watch the house go up in flames. Despite the distance, the time, the missing pieces, Mycroft would know the angles even deprived of his senses. He tenses for a moment, waiting, listening in the darkness, but Sherlock doesn’t say a word. But then Mycroft never expected him to. His presence tells him everything he needs to know. They lie together in the darkness, measuring breaths and passing minutes, until somewhere between the half cast darkness and dawn, Mycroft finally succumbs to sleep.

xxi)         Christmas is always an extravagant affair at the Holmes manor, and this year is no exception. They are the collective hub of the extended family, and the house is bustling with guests and staff, every room positively dripping with decorations. Sherlock is gone from Mycroft’s room by the time he wakes the following morning, and he barely sees him in the hours between then and dinner – caught in a constant stream of guests and polite conversation with Mummy until he is finally released to change when the dressing bell sounds.  
                Sherlock has already commandeered his bed, lounging across it with his shoes on the bedspread as he flicks through one of the dossiers that Mycroft had brought home to work on. He shouldn’t be surprised – Sherlock has never understood the concept of privacy – but the combination of exhaustion and the headache clawing its way inside his head is enough to make him snap.  
                He is across the room in three quick strides and the folder snatched from Sherlock’s grasp before he has even opened his mouth to protest.   
                “Shouldn’t you be terrorising Cousin Robert instead of rifling where you’re not wanted?”  
                Sherlock’s mouth snaps shut and his face closes down into an indifferent mask. He has never had secrets from Sherlock, never censored his curiosity, never shut him out of anything. His mind/room/life has always been open for Sherlock to sift through as he pleased. The implications and ramifications of his bitten off words are suddenly terrifyingly clear, and he opens his mouth to take them back, apologise, turn it into a jest – anything to keep Sherlock from unfolding himself from the bed and raising one sardonic eyebrow.   
                “I think you’re suffering from delusions of grandeur if you think your trumped up office job would ever need to be kept secret from your brother. But I know when I’m not wanted.” The last words are a vicious hiss around a smile that looks like it might crack as Sherlock steps forward, head tilting to eye Mycroft. It is hideous being on this end of his brother’s gaze, shut out and loathed; he is suddenly on the other side of the wall with everyone else.  
                His fingers reach out, trace against the sleeve of Sherlock’s shirt without conscious thought and Sherlock flinches back, giving a snort of derision before pushing past Mycroft and sweeping from the room. It feels colder as soon as he has gone. He wants to brush the words off – Sherlock being overly dramatic and ridiculous, everything will be fine, nothing will change. But the thoughts taste like ash in his mouth and he feels suddenly nauseous. He throws open a window and takes deep lungful’s of cold winter air until his head feels clearer, his thoughts less jumbled. It is idiocy, a minor misunderstanding, everything will be fine.  
                Except it is painfully clear it is anything but over dinner. He tries to catch Sherlock’s eye, his attention, anything, but he is met with scorn and barbed insults at every turn until he admits defeat and sinks into bed long before the rest of the household retires for the night.  
                He slips fitfully in and out of sleep and his bedroom door remains resolutely closed.

                Christmas day itself is awkward, stilted, and Mycroft cannot tell if it is simply that there is too much that cannot be said in front of others, or if there is just too much that cannot be said at all. It is a gulf that widens with every accidental glance across the drawing room at Sherlock – bored and aloof and stubbornly ignoring the attentions of the female cousins who have just discovered that the past year has suited him. He is all clean lines and elegant arrogance, and Mycroft feels fat and ungainly just looking at him.  
                He pastes on a smile and does his duty by Mummy’s side, greeting and chatting and making small talk with an endless stream of relations who never get any more interesting and don’t really matter – not like the dark shadow always on the edge of Mycroft’s vision. He wants to go over to Sherlock and apologise, try and pull his words back out from his head until everything is mended. But he’s already witnessed how deep the barbs on that tongue can cut and he doesn’t particularly relish the idea of being mocked and ridiculed in front of an audience for his troubles. So instead he smiles and works his way through a steady haze of champagne – until the relations are gone or in bed and he can escape to the darkness of his room, pull off that damned tie and sink against the window with a cigarette.  
                Sometime around his fourth cigarette the door opens and Sherlock slips in, a welcome ghost in the gloaming. Mycroft refuses to turn, to react outwardly in any way – not now, when it is all too raw and twisted and ugly and Sherlock is as likely to smile as he twists in another knife as he is to forgive. He can feel his brother like a live wire, the current flaying through his nerves until he feels as though one touch will annihilate him.  
                Sherlock doesn’t touch though, he never does now – a careful cluster of millimetres between them. But that doesn’t stop the heat that rises from him, easing into the tight muscles of Mycroft’s rigid back as they stand and breathe in tandem. Then Sherlock steps round him, easing into personal space and claiming it for his own. Too close, far too close and Mycroft chokes on a breath that stays firmly in his throat as Sherlock reaches out, fingers brushing against Mycroft’s lips as he pulls the cigarette free and lifts it to his own mouth. His gaze is a challenge, searing through the words and gestures that Mycroft pulls in and abandons. All guise and pretence is swept away beneath such a look, and it breaks something deep inside him to see Sherlock wield it with such ease. He is still so young, still his little brother, and that mirror image is back – his brother overlaid with this cool competent stranger who has a wicked gleam in his eye as he parts his lips to let the smoke drift out. Mycroft feels as though his axis has tipped; everything he knew suddenly slanted to be viewed at a whole new angle. And he doesn’t yet understand; cannot comprehend this world and what it means.  
                Sherlock slides the filter tip back between Mycroft’s parted lips, the paper damp against his suddenly parched mouth, and he still can’t look away, going through the motions and rituals of the cigarette as he watches this creature Sherlock is twisting into. Wild and untamed and far beyond Mycroft’s expectations, Sherlock smiles – hard and brittle and terrifying.  
                Mycroft won’t (can’t) break eye contact as Sherlock sinks back onto the bed. The cigarette offers him something to do with his hands, something to feign indifference with whilst his head screams murderous warnings. Sherlock slips each button of his shirt free, a slow slide of pale skin revealed as he shrugs it off and it slithers to the floor. The deliberate pop of the button on his trousers and Mycroft has to look away, must surely look away, now before it’s too later, before everything is broken, ruined. He can’t look away. Sherlock setting light to the room (Mycroft’s world) and letting it burn. But didn’t he always say that when Sherlock burned the world he would be right by his side? Years ago, a distant memory of innocence and soft smiles and a shared bed for comfort. Nothing as calculated as this – the angle of Sherlock’s gaze as the trousers join his shirt on the floor and he slides between the sheets on Mycroft’s bed in nothing but his boxers. This is premeditated, deliberate, in a way that their shared nights have never been before. The pool of his clothes on the floor is a challenge thrown at Mycroft’s feet.  
                He takes a shaky breath, another, letting the smoke fill him up from the inside out – maybe that will give him some stability, something to cling to in the shifting sands trying to suck him under. Sherlock is gifting him a choice – an offer of forgiveness. But the strings and conditions attached are still hidden from sight. It is Mycroft’s turn to move, to place his pieces on the board.   
                (It is no choice at all.)  
                The sheets are still cool to the touch, Sherlock’s body heat not yet making its mark, and there is careful space, space, space. Space for (wanting) slumber. Space by design. Mycroft swallows and prays for sleep.  
                Sometime in the haze between dreams and dark-lit dawn there is the slide of a shin against his calf, fingers curled into the hollow at the base of his spine, but they are more dreams than reality and by the time Mycroft wakes properly Sherlock is gone.

xxii)        All it takes is a quiet word to Mummy about the benefits of Sherlock spending a few weeks in London – to help prepare him for University, for being away from home. A word here, a suggestion there; it is nothing. Mycroft knows he shouldn’t, has a sense that this is a path that they cannot come back from – this heavy layer of guilt that’s smothering him for his sharp words, the (missing) space and (too much) closeness will dissipate, rot without further attention, disintegrate into the proper regard that brother’s should have for one another. But the thought of Sherlock with him in London overwhelms any other noise until it is all he can focus on – a sharp disarming glance from eyes that pick him apart like carrion.


End file.
